


Make a Home of Me

by themidnightguardian



Series: Kinktober 2020-2021 [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Absolutely no plot whatsoever, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Comfort Sex, F/M, Horcrux Hunting, Kinktober 2020, Mutual Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Sharing a Bed, Tent Sex, takes place after that dance scene in the tent, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26870929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themidnightguardian/pseuds/themidnightguardian
Summary: In the wake of Ron abandoning them, Harry and Hermione seek comfort in each other. Featuring bed-sharing, sex for comfort, and softness.---Hermione felt as though she could stay here, like this, forever. She didn’t want to pull away, to separate. Didn’t want the quiet—the emptiness—to creep back in. It would, she knew, if they let whatever this was end. If one of them went out to keep watch while the other tried and failed to sleep as they had done every night for the past two weeks.Involuntarily, her grip on Harry tightened, and she pressed her face into the curve of his neck.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Series: Kinktober 2020-2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960342
Comments: 10
Kudos: 166





	Make a Home of Me

The tent felt colder than usual.

It was just her imagination, of course, because Hermione had never once cast a subpar heating charm and she wasn’t about to start now.

But the quiet? The quiet was real.

Before Hogwarts—before the troll, really—she’d been a solitary child: preferring books to sports or television or useless debates over which Cabbage Patch kid was cutest. At the time, she had convinced herself that she preferred the quiet. That she preferred being alone.

But that was before she’d met Harry. Before she’d met Ron.

Ron was the loudest of them. Even in the tent, when they were miserable and tired and the locket was driving them mad, he would hum as he moved about, was always catching his hip on the corner of the table and cursing under his breath. He had a story for everything: Charlie’s dragons and Bill’s curse-breaking and the hell the twins raised as toddlers.

The tent felt dead without him.

She was numb half the time, and furious the other half, and the dark circles under her eyes matched Harry’s, and _god_ , sometimes she wondered—only for a second, _but still_ —if this was worth it. Because she was so tired. Tired of running. Tired of fear and anger and this empty, hollow, lost feeling in her chest. And—

There was a hand on her shoulder. Warm. Harry.

“You’ve had the locket a while,” he said softly, as if he was hesitant to break the quiet. Without another word, he plucked at the chain and lifted it over her head. The moment it was gone from her, it was like she’d been saved from a drowning she hadn’t been aware of. The grief was still there, the anger and the bitter feeling of betrayal and the cold, but she could _breathe_ again.

Harry sat the locket on the table with a dull _clunk_ , and then he took Hermione’s hand, pulling her gently from her seat.

“What—” she started to say. To protest, maybe, because from the moment they’d gotten the locket, one of them had always worn it.

“When was the last time you did anything just for the fun of it?” he asked, leading her towards the open space in the tent. He let go of her hand for a moment, only long enough to switch the station on their crackling radio. The last notes of a jazzy piano tune trailed through the air, and then another song started up, this one soft and swingy.

Music. They hadn’t listened to much of it during their time on the run. First, because Ron always had Potterwatch on, listening intently with the hope he wouldn’t recognize any of the names of people gone missing. Later—when it was just Harry and Hermione—because the sound of the broadcast had become so familiar. A little piece of noise that Ron hadn’t taken with him.

Harry’s hands found hers and pulled her in, one arm at a time until she was swaying along with him. He turned them quickly and then surprised her with a spin that had her laughing despite everything. The twirling was making her dizzy, but it didn’t matter because she ended up with Harry’s arm around her waist, their hands still clasped together as they leaned to-and-fro in a poor imitation of dancing. When she held up her own arm for Harry to twirl under, he laughed bright and loud and ducked gracelessly, stumbling a bit over his own feet.

Somehow, as that song ended and the next one began, they wound up pressed together, Hermione’s head resting against Harry’s shoulder, his arm firm around her waist, more holding than dancing at that point. He made no move to let her go, even though this new song was faster paced, even though the moment should have broken by now.

Hermione felt as though she could stay here, like this, forever. She didn’t want to pull away, to separate. Didn’t want the quiet—the emptiness—to creep back in. It would, she knew, if they let whatever this was end. If one of them went out to keep watch while the other tried and failed to sleep as they had done every night for the past two weeks.

Involuntarily, her grip on Harry tightened, and she pressed her face into the curve of his neck.

She needn’t have worried, though, because he only buried his nose in her hair, held her closer. It could have been a mere minute or half an hour that they stood there, but eventually Harry let out a shuddering breath that Hermione could feel through his ribcage, and, acting without thought, she lightly kissed the skin just above his collarbone.

It was a little thing, meant for comfort. As if she could say, _I’m here, I’m with you_ , through touch because the words themselves weren’t enough. 

Harry tensed and Hermione reluctantly pulled back. It was, at times, difficult to remember that Harry wasn’t a naturally tactile person. That he hadn’t grown up with hugs and forehead kisses and holding hands to cross the street. Everything he knew now about affection, he’d learned from the Weasleys’ lack of personal space and the quidditch team’s overzealous back-slaps and Hermione’s tendency to lean on her friends.

And that meant that even after seven years, sometimes he was still surprised by gentleness. Surprised that _he_ was worthy of it.

Harry didn’t let Hermione retreat too far, just enough to see her face. There was a little crease between his brows, complicated emotion swirling behind his bright green eyes. Hermione could not even begin to decipher it; she was good with logic, with puzzles and clues and facts. Not so much with people.

Slowly, carefully—like he was afraid she might startle or maybe that _he_ might—he leaned forward, tucking the loose strands of her hair behind her ear, and kissed the top of her forehead so faintly it was little more than a brush of lips across her skin. Still, it tingled pleasantly, and Hermione sighed into it.

His lips ghosted down her temple to kiss there, and then her cheek, and all the while her grip on his arms must have been bruising, she was holding on so tight. There was a split-second hesitation, a single moment where his eyes sought out hers, and then his mouth covered her own: light and tentative and warm and _Harry_.

She kissed him back, leaning further into his space. Emboldened, Harry’s fingers trailed down the side of her neck, feather light, leaving goosebumps in their wake, and then across her shoulder, down her arm. She tangled a hand in his hair—softer than she’d always imagined—and tugged gently, adjusting the angle.

The whole world fell away. In this moment, there were no horcruxes, no dark lords, no war, no loss, nothing. Just her and Harry. He was the only real thing in the universe, solid beneath her hands where everything else was just shadow. He was the only thing keeping her real, too.

She thought she might slip away entirely if he stopped touching her.

“Hermione,” he breathed out her name in a hoarse whisper as her lips moved to his throat.

“ _Please_ ,” she spoke against his skin. “I want—”

The words escaped her, or maybe there were just too many of them. _I want to feel whole. I want to feel safe. I want you to never stop holding me. I want you. I want you._

But Harry seemed to understand her anyway. His hands slipped under the hem of her jumper, cool against her heated skin and not nearly enough. They skimmed up her sides, slid to her back in brief exploration, before taking hold of the fabric and pulling it over her head. Her own hands dropped to the fly of his jeans, trembling as she flicked open the button, slid the zipper down, pushed the denim over his hips.

Harry kicked his jeans off the rest of the way, tripping over the fabric with a muttered, “Fuck,” and it was just so completely _him_ that she leaned up to kiss him again, half-laughing as she did. And then there was a rush of fumbling hands as she tried to tug his shirt off the same moment he reached for her jeans, and more laughter, and their clothes were littered over the floor, but it hardly mattered.

Between soft kisses and Harry’s attempts to unclasp Hermione’s bra and stumbling over discarded clothing, they managed to make it to the bed, collapsing upon it and against each other, every centimeter between them too much. It was a flurry of feeling; she could barely keep track of her hands, of his. One moment she was kissing him and the next she was gasping, his mouth closing over her left nipple as he toyed with the other.

Hermione had never done this before—she’d only ever kissed Viktor and would have hexed off McLaggen’s hands before she let him touch her like this—but this was Harry, someone she loved uncompromisingly, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Pleasure zinged across her skin wherever he touched, and she arched up when his teeth grazed briefly across her nipple before moving to give the other one the same attention.

Harry’s hand was feather-light as it skimmed down her stomach, and her body shuddered at the not-quite-ticklish sensation that only stoked the arousal warming low in her belly. When his fingers trailed lower still, dipping into her dripping core and then circling her clit, she keened.

Harry looked up at her then, mouth red and wet, green eyes wanting. A surge of fondness bloomed in her chest.

“What do you want?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Just touch me,” she breathed. It was already _so much_. She wanted closeness, to feel his skin on hers, but not to drown in it. She carded her fingers through his hair—it had, in recent years, always had a _just shagged_ look about it, and now even more so—then tugged gently to guide his mouth back to hers.

It was a sweet kiss, languid. Entirely at odds with the way Harry slid a finger into her wet center and ground the heel of his palm against her sensitive nub.

“Oh _god_ ,” she choked out, eyes shut and head thrown back. It wasn’t fair, how this simple touch could burn away everything in her until she felt both hollowed out and bursting. How it took all the worry and fear and heaviness that had been sitting in her chest and replaced it all with light. How, when he thrust a second finger in, it punched the breath out of her.

Harry huffed out a laugh against her jaw, only for it to shift to a sharp inhale a moment later, Hermione’s hand wrapping around his length and giving it a firm stroke. This, too, was something she’d only read about, but when she dragged her thumb along his slit, smearing precum over the head of his cock and twisted her wrist, Harry’s hips jerked forward.

“Fuck,” he mouthed against her neck, breath coming hot and fast as she continued to stroke him. His fingers tried to match her pace, thrusting into her with renewed vigor, twisting and curling until they found that little spot inside her and pressed.

Hermione’s back arched, vision whiting.

Then—maybe because they were both competitive people, or maybe because the stress and lack of privacy over the past months had made it difficult to find release, or maybe because every touch was a confirmation that they weren’t alone—it took on an edge of desperation. Hermione was barely cognizant of more than the building pressure at the base of her spine, the velvet touch of Harry’s cock in her hand, leaking enough precum to smooth the slide of skin. Vaguely, she recognized a string of half-gasped pleas and curses but couldn’t tell whether they were from her or Harry. She reveled in the lack of separation between them: how any cry of pleasure might belong to either of them, how she could not tell the feel of his skin from her own, how even in this simple touch they moved as one.

When Harry crooked his fingers again, thumb circling her clit unforgivingly, she came, some weight sitting in her chest shattering as she tipped over the edge. Her wrist twisted, grip probably a shade too-tight on his cock, but Harry didn’t seem to mind, following her into orgasm only a moment later.

Later, once they were able to regain their breathing enough to complain about the stickiness and rapidly cooling sweat on their skin, Harry tried to get up—to put on the damned locket and sit out in the cold keeping watch.

But Hermione only waved her wand to clean them—not as good as a bath, but it would do—and held him closer.

“Not tonight,” she murmured against his still-warm skin. Maybe it was stupid, reckless, to covet the heat of another body—of Harry—so much that she would break their careful routine of hypervigilance. But she still couldn’t bear to let him go, couldn’t stand for the cold to creep back in just yet. “Stay?”

It was hard to tell between the dim light and the post-coital haze, but something like relief might have washed over Harry’s face before he settled back into bed.

“Okay,” he murmured directly into her hair, tucking her head under his chin as they rearranged their limbs. “I’ll stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! Trying my hand at Kinktober since I never write smut--the prompt list is just one I made up. Please be gentle with me!  
> Also, this is my first time writing Harry/Hermione, and it was really difficult to write something this sweet. (I'm usually more enemies-to-lovers rather than friends-to-lovers, so be prepared for that if you keep up with my Kinktober list)
> 
> Day 1: mutual masturbation
> 
> Comments/kudos greatly appreciated <3


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